The Trial of Tolkien
by AEMI
Summary: This is what you get when you create a story that is larger than life...


The Trial of Tolkien.

When The Author died he fully expected to be taken before his Maker and judged. As a devout Catholic, he had prepared himself for a little Purgatory, perhaps some time in Hell - he was not so vain to believe himself sinless - and then he hoped to be joined with his beloved wife.

What he did not expect was to be surrounded by Nine black-cloaked and hooded figures.

"John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, prepare to met your doom!" 

No, he definitely had not expected that.

Four of the shadowy figures were quite small, one was not quite so small, one was medium-seized and slender, and the other three were quite tall. One of these carried a staff and thumped the ground with it, rather theatrically, twice.

"You stand before us to be judged by those you have greatly wronged!" cried he, and took from the folds of his cloak a large volume, and threw it at The Author's feet : he knew it well , it was the collected volumes of his own Trilogy. 

"You will have to justify yourself for writing this!" the figure with the staff thundered.

"Let the one who was most wronged speak first!"

There was a slight cacophony as they all started to talk at once, but then by sudden silent common agreement, they fell back to allow one of the small figures to step forward. He threw back his hood, revealing a round face with apple coloured cheeks and framed by curly hair, but very sad and serious eyes.

"Frodo son of Drogo!" said the one with the staff, "You have indeed sufffered most at the hands of this man. Speak."

"Well, er, don't you know, I am not altogether happy with being the 'Hero' of your story…well, no, that's not entirely true, it's …it's just that , well, you really chuck the lot at me, don't you? I mean, there's carrying the Ring, thàt's bad enough, but then I also get a poisoned knife wound, get another dose of poison from a giant spider, get whipped up by orcs and in the end get my finger bitten off by Gollum. Er…that's a bit much, don't you think? At least…I think so…" he trailed off almost apologetically.

"We certainly think so!"cried two other small figures, rushing at his side.

"As Chairman of the League of Protection against Cruelty to Hobbits," began one, " I strongly object against your treatment of our esteemed cousin…" "And ourselves!" cried the other, "That awfull Grishnakh, ugh! And I had a great big Troll fall on top of me in the Final Battle, thère's a nice afterthought, I nearly suffocated!"

"Though I have litlle to complain for myself," continued the one, " I am quite clever and noble and get to help kill the Lord of the Nazgûl and all, but then we just grew old and died, wé didn't get to go to Valinor. I know we weren't Ringbearers , but neither was Gimli and hé got to go, and besides, wé were with Frodo from the start".

They were, of course, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took.

"And you know, if it hadn't been for us rousing the Ents in Fangorn and all, I'd rather suspect we were only written into the story for comic relief!"

"Hear, hear!" grunted the not quite so small figure, and revealed himself, " I often got that feeling too: the number of times I was made to act like a complete fool…and then that ridiculous Orc-slaying contest in Helm's Deep…and that was just about the last time I got to do anything of importance in the story, except dragging Pippin out from under that troll! I didn't even get in on the Last Debate! I was the only Dwarf present and I wasn't even àsked!" Gimli growled, and had his hand on the handle of his axe, ready to back up his arguments in proper dwarf-fashion, and probably would have done so, had not the figure with the staff intervened.

"Sam, have you nothing to say?"he invited the last of the small figures to speak up.

The Hobbit stepped forward rather nervously, " Well, begging your pardon , I can only agree with Mr. Brandybook and Mr.Took, it's a crying shame what my poor master was made to go through. I really don't have any complaints for myself, except…" he reddened.

"Except?" prompted the figure with the staff.

"Except…my poor Rosie…fourteen kids, she was quite worn out and all…"

"So was he!" chucked an irrepressible Pippin.

"Order!Order!" cried the tall figure and thumped his staff thrice. "Let's hear for a more serious grief. Aragorn, what say you?"

Named, one of the tall figures stepped forward and revealed the stern features of the King.

"I too have but little to say, except that in the end it became very hard to keep track of all those names. One or two aliasses, fine, but why so many? My true complaint is not for myself, anyway, but for my lady Arwen. She wants to know why she was left to do needlework : it was not out of misogyny, as Eowyn got a fine fighting part…which should have fallen to my lady, really…in fact, she says she doesn't see why there should have been an Eowyn at all." He too reddened and added rather sheepishly : "She was not best pleased with Eowyn taking an …ah…interest in me. Not best pleased at all!!"

"Here's one who should have stayed single!" murmured the medium-sized figure, who had hitherto remained silent, in a fair voice.

"Quiet!" said the one with the staff sternly to him, " You wil get your turn. But first, I think, Boromir."

The Man from Gondor stepped forward.

"I suppose you all think that my bone of contention is that I was turned into a traitor." He began, " Well, no. If anything that is rather a good part to have, though I died, and got that awfull dirge at my funeral…"

"Speak for yourself," muttered the figure that was silenced earlier, " Wé got to sing that drivell!"and got another stern look. 

Boromir continued : "What bothers mé is that I do not get to do what I know best. I'm a military man after all. 

There was no strategic debate whatsoever at the council of Elrond. I could have drawn up a plan of action, but no, we were sent of whith no plan at all, not even something so basic as a map! No-one had a clue as to our path, I mean, that was simply not efficient!And the only suggestion that was in any way constructive was _to bring firewood!_ For crying out loud!!!" which he did.

"Hear, hear!" cried the slender figure, and would not be silenced any longer, " You are not the only one who has not been employed to his full potential, friend Boromir!"

He threw back his hood revealing a fair elven-face : Legolas.

"By your own admission I probably achieved least of all the Fellowship, apart from shooting some Orcs and the Winged Nazgûl Beast. Now I'll be the first to admit that I am not as wise as Gandalf nor a leader of men such as Aragorn , but I am a Woodelf, could you not at least have mé do the tracking, and not Aragorn? 

And why must I be completely upstaged by Elladan and Elrohir in the end, not to mention act as messenger-boy to Imrahil, bidding him to the Last Debate, where I, like Gimli, was not invited? Threethousand years of experience in battling Orcs should count for something, give or take the odd century. I rarely stand upon rank, but I am the son of the King of Mirkwood, I should have been present, if only to represent my already grossly maligned people…now thàt is my true grief!"

From under his cloak he drew another book, and it was 'The Hobbit'

"An outrage! Galion is a very good friend of mine, I'll have you know, and the Chief Guard a very worthy Elf… and you made complete fools of them! _Elves do not get drunk!Nor do they snore!_ As for my beloved Elvenlord and Father…" he drew a deep breath, obviously struggling to remain calm, " He does not have a weakness for treasure! He likes his gems same as any Elf, but does hé wear a jewelled crown like the Noldor lords? No he does not! Has he shed the blood of his kind over Silmarils? No he has not! And if we marched off to the Lonely mountain after the fall of Smaug, that was not to get at the Hoard, but to secure it from the evil hands of the Goblins, and how right we were! Finally…what's all this distinction between High-Elves and others (among which my people!), 'High' implying that the others are 'Low' and thus, 'less'? Those are my griefs."

"And very great they are too!" said the figure with the staff gravely " As are mine"

He revealed himself, and it was Gandalf.

"I am a Maia, a being of great power, sent to aid the Free people of Middle Earth against the Evil of Sauron, who is a Maia too. Yet I do not seem to be, as Boromir would put it, very efficient. I'm supposed to be a wizard, but what's my magic? Fireworks! I dare not show my face at wizard conventions : next to Merlin and Faust or even a fraud like Cagliostro, what sort of a figure do I cut? Wise am I, hmmm? It took me all of 60 years to figure out Bilbo's ring was thé Ring, and Saruman pulled the wool over my eyes for years too, what does that say about my intellingence ? Worst of all, I had to die first to become in any way effective !"

All the Nine had spoken now, and they looked at the author accusingly.

"What heve you got to say for yourself," thundered Gandalf.

"JRR Tolkien was on his knees and trembling. 

"Please, good sirs, i only aimed to write an entertaining story, nothing more! I never thought…"

"You never thought! Indeed! You never thought of the consequenses and the reputation you were going to give us! Nor of what people were going to make of us!"

"Make of you?" asked The Author with a sense of foreboding.

"Aye. Terrible things have they done with us since your books came out. What say you all, guilty as charged?"

"Guilty!" they all cried.

"Then what shall be his punishment? I am for roasting him."

"Put him against the wall!" suggested Boromir the Military Man.

"The axe!" cried Gimly the Dwarf, "Chop-chop!"

"Arwen said something with needles…"

"Marriage : the ruin of many a good man!" mused Legolasto himself, then added, " Give Tolkien to me: I shall sing to him of the Sea."

"No!"cried the hobbits, " We have something better, let him listen to Bombadil!"

They conferred for a moment , then came up with something even worse.

"You have written!" said Gandalf, " Now you shall read." 

"Read what?" asked The Author.

"Fanfics!"cried the Nine in unison.

The last thing he heard was their wicked laughter, and then his own screams, as he read….


End file.
